grits soufflé with rosemary & roasted garlic

My soufflés fell. They fell, I’m fairly certain, because I insisted on peeking at them repeatedly through the cracked oven door to make sure they were puffing up nicely. And they were, at one point. But when I pulled them all golden brown and fragrant from the hot oven, they’d fallen flatter than a pancake, concave even. “Shit, now what am I gonna do,” I thought, not out of any real concern for dinner but because I needed pretty pictures for my blog.

I like taking pictures of the food I make. It’s a meditative thing for me, being in the kitchen and behind the camera, but sometimes it gets away from me. I had a whole story mapped out around this grits soufflé, a story about homesickness—- deep, achey, ever-present, adrift-at-sea homesickness. Grits help with that sort of thing, because food—- the kind of food we care about—- is never really about just food. So I thought I’d make grits, and then I thought, “good lord, who wants to look at a picture of grits?” Within a matter of hours I’d managed to transform my antidote to homesickness into a source of anxiety over blog-worthy photographs. And just as I was beginning to fret about how I’d find the time to remake the soufflés and the light to re-photograph them by my self-imposed weekend deadline, I stumbled upon Brian Ferry’s beautiful post about honesty and the creative process. Before I was even halfway through, I’d decided not to revisit the soufflés.

I spend an awful lot of time thinking about photography, and the photographs that most interest me are those that capture things as they are—- un-staged, un-styled, of-the-moment sorts of photos. That’s not exactly the honesty that Brian was talking about, but it’s what I was reminded of as I read his post.

It’s true, I could make the soufflés again, but I’d only be doing it because I needed a photo of them, and then the things I do for pleasure—- cooking, photographing, writing—- would become a chore. Instead, I give you the soufflés as they were, along with the recipe, which I’ve successfully made for occasions both special and ordinary and which I can assure you do puff up light and airy, creamy and pleasantly gritty, with a whisper of piney rosemary and the sweet, mellow nip of roasted garlic.

a story about homesickness—- deep, achey, ever-present, adrift-at-sea homesickness.

I’m sorry you’re homesick. I feel kind of like that all the time myself, but what’s the alternative? Staying home? That presents its own set of problems. For me, it’s Swedish Pancakes–a softer, eggier version of crepes, dripping with butter and crunchy with white sugar. The month I moved to Bangladesh, before my shipment got there and it was just me and the two suitcases I had moved with, I ate them for dinner four times in one week.

Yes, I guess you would feel that way, huh? I certainly don’t advocate staying home; you miss out on all sorts of growth and adventure that way. But GOING home? Now that’s an entirely different story. In the abstract, of course. I’m not suggesting it’s time for you to go home.

Swedish Pancakes sound wonderful. Chris would love them. In fact, I’ll probably have to make them for him once he sees this. And he’ll refuse to put jam on them.

If it makes you feel better, I totally screwed up my blueberry muffins last week. Not burned or killed, but the caramelizing on top kinda overflowed onto my muffin tin. They tasted amazing, but boy did they look like doodoo (I blogged them too..lol!).

Oh gosh. I *have* to find some time to make these. I mean… grits, cheese, garlic?! How can you go wrong with that? Fallen or not, your souffles and photography are beautiful. I’m sincerely looking forward to poring over the rest of your blog.